


new and sharp with many teeth

by dollsome



Series: Sansa, Tyrion, and Shae [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-3x08. Tyrion joins Sansa for supper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	new and sharp with many teeth

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to [for our sleeping girls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/811573), though I think it makes sense on its own too.

_We've heard you were a victim._  
 _Stop crouching in the shadows, chewing your hair._  
  
 _You can be graceful, not like a ballerina,_  
 _like a hedge of coral,_  
  
 _built up and eaten and worn down_  
 _yet alive, carving the rhythms of the seas._  
  
 _You can be a threshing sledge,_  
 _new and sharp with many teeth._  
  
(Jeannine Hall Gailey, "Okay, Ophelia")  
  
  
 _“Lady Stark, you may survive us yet.”_  
(2.04)  
  
  
  
Her husband enters their chambers to join Sansa for supper, their first private supper as man and wife. The food is laid out already. Sansa wishes she could dine by herself, or have Shae to keep her company. Yesterday was so exhausting. She doesn’t want to put her courtesy back on just yet. The thought of having to pretend everything is all right (and keep pretending, and pretending, and pretending) makes her feel so old and tired.  
  
Tyrion greets Shae as she’s leaving. He even remembers her name, which Sansa can’t imagine any other Lannister doing. Sansa herself never thought to be kind to servants until Shae. Perhaps he is a good man, or at least not quite a bad one. She should be happy about that.  
  
He looks up at her almost as if he is nervous to do it. He looks much better than he did yesterday night, though that’s not hard. Sansa thinks he must feel guilty for his conduct.  
  
 _He should,_  says a voice in her head that she pretends isn’t her own.  _He swore never to make me suffer and then he made a fool of both of us. He made Joffrey angry and didn’t even think what he might do to me because of it._  
  
“How are you this evening, Lady Sansa?” he asks. His voice is warm and friendly.  
  
“Very well, my lord,” she answers. She is relieved to hear the words come out sounding calm.  
  
He reaches up to take her hand, just as he did yesterday.  _I won’t ever hurt you._  She had believed him for a moment. He had even made her smile.  
  
What an idiot she was. Then again, he was the one who made the promise. Not her. She would never break a promise so rudely and so soon.  
  
She clasps his hand briefly. His fingers are warm and gentle, but she’s still not sorry to let go.  
  
“That makes one of us,” he says, pulling his hand back and flexing his short fingers. “I’m afraid my head has spent the day paying for yesterday’s revelries. I was not aware headaches could be quite so splitting, and I’ve had someone try to split my head with an ax.”  
  
He acts like the strangest things are funny. Maybe by the time she is as old as he is (if she makes it that far), she’ll learn to turn all of life’s awful things into a jest. She doesn’t have the talent yet. “I’m sorry to hear that.”  
  
“The ax or the headache?”  
  
“The headache,” she says.  
  
He doesn’t laugh, but puts laughter into his voice. Margaery is good at that too. Sansa wishes she could learn how to do it. It makes people want to treat you kindly. “Oh, I deserved that.”  
  
Sansa does not argue. Silence can be as sharp as words, and it’s harder to get in trouble for it.  
  
Tyrion waits for an answer. When he realizes that none is forthcoming, he smiles slightly.  
  
She wishes he wouldn’t act like that – like he admires her, like he wants to be her friend. It makes her want to let her guard down. That is probably just what he intends.  
  
She isn’t stupid. Not anymore.  
  
“I hope you had a pleasant day,” he attempts.  
  
“I did, my lord.”  
  
“Did you see your friend Lady Margaery?”  
  
“For a little while. She told me to pass on her congratulations to you. She said the wedding was beautiful.”  
  
“She would,” Tyrion says, smirking.  
  
He isn’t wrong about that. Sansa wishes she had Margaery’s power to twist everything until it turns beautiful. For a silly moment, she imagines telling her husband what Margaery said about him. She wonders how he would react. Could he really be a good husband in the way that Margaery meant? She thinks again of him holding her hand. Of his hands gentle at her back during the ceremony, draping the cloak over her shoulders.  
  
(She only kneeled when he asked. She knew she should have sooner – she heard the people laughing and knew why – but something in her froze and she couldn’t. She couldn’t have mercy on him until he asked for it.)  
  
Even if he could be a good husband, she doesn’t care. He is a Lannister, and now so is she because of him.  
  
“I am sorry for the way I acted,” he says. When she looks over at him, it is to find him watching her. His brow is creased with concern. She wishes he wouldn’t look so sad. It isn’t fair that he gets to show his feelings while she is forever fighting hers down. “I was thinking more of myself than you. It was atrocious behavior for a new husband, and I promise you I do not intend to let it happen again.”  
  
She thinks of Shae earlier, promising to bring harm to Tyrion if he ever behaved atrociously. She couldn’t do it, of course. She’s only a servant. But the fact that she wants to feels like the important thing.  _You are yours,_  Shae told her. Sansa repeats the words in her head. They give her the strength to reply honestly. “You didn’t intend to let it happen the first time, my lord.”  
  
He looks genuinely hurt. “I suppose your trust in me is something I will have to earn.”  
  
“That’s how trust works,” Sansa reminds him. The words come out impatient and a little harsh, the way she used to talk to her siblings. She regrets it at once. It seems like such a childish thing to say.  
  
But Tyrion doesn’t appear to think so. He’s quiet for a moment, considering her words. “So it is.”  
  
She looks down at her food. She doesn’t know what else to do. She isn’t hungry anymore.  
  
“I think it wise,” Tyrion says, “to put you in charge of pouring the wine tonight. Don’t you?”  
  
He has that laughing quality to his voice again.  
  
“I will if it pleases you.”  
  
Rather than begging her to be honest with him, he only says, rather dryly, “I suspect it will please you.”  
  
Sansa lifts the wine jug and pours a modest amount into her cup, then his.  
  
Very modest.  
  
“That’s barely half the cup!” he protests.  
  
She looks up at him.  
  
“... which is no doubt the perfect amount,” he adds quickly.  
  
Amusement makes the corners of her mouth twitch; she chooses not to hide it. He looks so pleased to see her smiling.  
  
She wonders what he would do to make her smile.  
  
“To my lovely new cup-bearer,” Tyrion says, lifting his wine. “I’m blessed to have such a supper companion, Lady Stark.”  
  
The sound of her own name makes her heart leap. It’s kind of him to say it. Maybe he will keep being kind. Maybe she will learn how to make him be kind. Or even keep her safe.  
  
 _Women in our position must make the best of our circumstances,_  Margaery told her.  
  
Sansa raises her cup and drinks.


End file.
